


Pensacola

by rei_c



Series: Different People in Alternate Places [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Memory Loss, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester went to hell and Dean Winchester went off the grid. Everyone knows this. Michaela Johnson is not going to let it end like that, not if she can do anything about it. And? Turns out she can do a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pensacola

**Author's Note:**

> Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength,  
> while loving someone deeply gives you courage.  
> \--Lao Tzu

Michaela Johnson has never backed down from a fight. She's been in a lot of them and there are a lot of people around this country who have the scars to prove it. There are a lot of monsters who have died because of it. And yet she's sitting here, in the driver's seat of her car, too afraid to get out of it. If she gets out, she'll have to go down to the end of the street, and if she does that, she'll have to knock on the door to the house she's been quietly watching for a week. And if she knocks, someone will answer. 

Her phone rings. Michaela jumps, curses under her breath, and answers without looking at the caller id. "What?"

"You can't just keep sitting in the car, Mick." 

Rosie. Of course it's Rosie. 

"Watch me," Michaela snaps. "Jesus, Rosie. And what did I tell you about keeping an eye on me, huh? You promised."

Rosie snorts, says, "You knew I was gonna call, don't even try to lie to me, bitch." Rosie stops, then, and Michaela can hear her doing something, sounds like she's scraping a bowl clean in the kitchen. Glass bowl, metal spoon.

"Hey," Michaela says, softer now, worried, finally taking her gaze off the front door of that house for the first time in what feels like hours. Her eyes are dry and burn when she blinks and curves downwards to let her forehead rest on the steering wheel. "What're you making?"

"Again," Rosie says, "you know."

The vision was right, then. Rosie's forced into making her special cookies and Michaela's here, two thousand miles away, doing jack shit. She's a horrible person. 

"You're not a horrible person," Rosie says. 

Michaela hears the oven open, waits for it to close before she says, "I don't know why I ever thought it would be a good idea to fall in love with a telepath." 

She says it lightly and Rosie takes the jibe, a long-standing one between them, with a laugh. "Probably the same reason I thought it would be a good idea to fall in love with a seer," she says, a response so old and familiar between them that just hearing makes Michaela settle down a little. Rosie's in pain but not enough to stay silent and bind completely to Michaela's thoughts. 

"I'll be fine," Rosie says. "Lucas called; he'll be here this weekend."

"I'll come home," Michaela says. She turns on the car and pulls away from the silent street, leaving the house behind her without even glancing at it in the rearview mirror. "I just need to pick up my stuff from the motel and then I'll get on the road. I'll check and see when I make it; keep an eye on me and you'll know as well." 

There's silence from Rosie's end; Michaela waits and waits and finally Rosie says, "Go find him. Bring him back with you." 

Michaela groans. "Rosie, we've talked about this before," she says. 

Rosie cuts her off. "If you're too scared to knock on that door by yourself, go find Dean fucking Winchester, drag him away from whatever sorry state he's found himself in, kick him in the ass, and bring him back with you. I've told you once and I've told you a million times, Mick: there's a reason you keep dreaming about the South and it's not because there's a damn palm tree in the middle of Michigan."

"I know," Michaela says. Rosie's given her the same advice a million times and Michaela's had the same answer a million times. "I just." 

"You're scared," Rosie says, quietly, once it's clear Michaela isn't going to say anything else. "I know. I know that and I know you and I know you'll never admit it to yourself, much less say it out loud. But you've been watching that house for a week, Mick, and you haven't even made it out of the car. Please. I'll be fine. Don't come home until you know, okay? And Dean -- Mick, I owe him. I have a feeling he needs this too." 

The motel lights gleam in the distance; Michaela drove faster than she'd expected, to be seeing them this soon. She doesn't say anything, not when she's driving and not when she's parked in front of her room. She gets out of the car in silence, goes into the crappy little room, and looks around at the wood-panelled walls, the paintings of deer and waterfalls, and the spot on the ceiling above the bed that she's stared at for hours. 

" _Please_ ," Rosie says. 

Michaela lets out a sigh and says, "There's no guarantee he'll come with me. No one's seen him in years." 

"He'll go," Rosie says. "If you tell him _everything_." 

"I thought I was supposed to be the seer, remember?" Michaela says, trying to joke. It's a weak attempt. "Don't go barging in on my territory."

Rosie laughs; the sound has pain at the edges and it's almost enough to have Michaela say 'fuck it' and leave, go back to Rosie, take care of her. Almost. 

"You're a shit seer," Rosie tells her. "An obsolete oracle. A piss-poor prophet. A."

Michaela cuts her off with a laugh, says, "Okay, okay, christ, fine, I get it. And believe me, I know. Okay. First thing tomorrow, I'll check out and head south. Happy now?"

"Delighted," Rosie drawls. Her tone changes, though, as she goes on, says, "Let me know when you make it wherever you're heading." She sounds so worried and caring and so full of love that Michaela squirms to hear it. She's never been able to figure out how she's gotten so fucking lucky. "You were a saint in a previous life," Rosie says. The words are sarcastic; the tone behind them is anything but. "I love you, Mick. You know that, right?" 

_I know_ , Michaela thinks. _And sometimes I think I'd die with how much I love you._ "Don't let your cookies burn," she says. 

"I'll save one for you." 

Rosie hangs up; Michaela knows she heard both the thought and the words. Rosie's still listening, too, so Michaela sends her a mental hug and goes to get ready for bed. 

\--

Michaela dreams that night. 

_Sea, it's the sea -- no, not the sea, something smaller, something warmer, the Gulf. There are a million miles of water in front of her and an entire country behind her but this, this is the place. There's no beach, just a few feet of jutting rocks, but she can see fishing boats out on the water, a few piers to either side._

_She turns, looks behind her, back to the Gulf and eyes on the land. A long, curving gravel drive, unkempt grass as tall as her knees, a few palmettos and palms, but live oaks and magnolias and cypress in abundance. Sand pines in the distance, red cedar, and they're flashing in front of her eyes, the curve of this part of the country and all the trees on it until it's too much._

_She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. She expects to wake up. She always wakes up now. She expects this to be over. It's always over after this. She opens her eyes. She expects --_

_She's on the other side of the road. Two-lane road, old. Trailer back in the grass, black lines of a run-down car next to it. There was a house here, before, she thinks; hurricane swept it away and this land isn't cheap but it is unwanted, so close to the bayou, the fishing, the harbour and shipping docks just a few miles away. Tourists on the other side of the sound but this is bayou land and tourists don't care about the bayous, don't care about the rocks and the sawgrass and the way people here don't talk much but don't need to._

_It's a good place to hide if you don't mind the heat or the hurricanes or the bugs or the 'gators._

_Yeah. This is the place. Right on the coast, halfway between Coden and Bayou la Batre._

_Alabama._

She wakes up, stares up at the ceiling and what little of the stain the clock-radio illuminates, and murmurs, "Of course. Dean Winchester is hiding in Alabama. Sure. Why not."

Then she rolls over and goes back to sleep.

\--

First thing she does in the morning is check her phone. It's habit, she knows it's a bad one, but she'll be fucked if she starts the day without any hint of what's to come. There's a text waiting for her from Lucas. 

     _made it 2 ur house. came early. no need 2 worry - i got it under ctrl._

Someday he'll learn proper grammar. 

There are five texts from Rosie and the phone buzzes in her hand as she's about to check them. Six texts from Rosie and the most recent says 

     _He'll never learn. Alabama? Drive safe. Bring me back something._

Michaela smiles, texts back 

     _I'd be more worried if he did. Hope you're feeling better. Try not to kill him, he's useful to have around._

She checks twitter, browses her instagram and double-taps pretty pictures of Paris and Moscow, logs on to her usual hunter's sites to see if anyone has any books for sale, and by the time she's done with the routine morning scrolling, Rosie's texted back. 

     _Much better. He brought cake, so not entirely untrainable.  
    Drive safe. And take a shower first, you stink. Even *you* know it._

Michaela laughs. "Yes, ma'am," she tells the empty room, and heads for the bathroom. 

\--

An hour later she's on the road, heading south on I-75. This part of Michigan's pretty quiet, apart from all the tourists and people on vacation; it's got to be empty during winter until the roads clear enough for ski bunnies. Michaela could grow to like it, she thinks. It's not too different from home, even though home's been home for nearly eight years and has room for all their friends and Michaela's finally gotten the garage set up the way she wants it. Home, though, is really wherever Rosie is, and the sooner Michaela stops thinking about things like this, the better, because she knows where Dean lives now but she misses her girl. 

Michaela sets the car on cruise, just six miles above the speed limit, and calls Missouri. 

"Michaela Beth Johnson, I know you ain't talking on the phone while you're driving," is how Missouri answers the call. 

Michaela can't help but smile. "It's bluetooth, Missouri. One of those earpieces you always complain about. I promise, both of my hands are on the wheel. How're you doing?" 

Missouri huffs, says, "I'm old as Moses, 'Kaela girl. How do you _think_ I'm doing?" She calms down quick, though, and says, "I'm good, just like always. Wards are good, house is fine, and I just had a visit from one of your hanger's-on last week. Don't send any more my way, all right? I can take care of myself." 

"We worry, Missouri," Michaela says. "That's all." 

Michaela can feel Missouri roll her eyes from here, no matter the distance between Kansas and Michigan. "Lord help you, 'Kaela, you and that girl of yours both. Now, why are you in Michigan and not with Rosie? And why're you headed south when you should be turning that pretty little car of yours west and going home to take care of her?" 

"We've been playing this one close to the chest," Michaela says, slow and hesitant. "Rosie's been helping me keep it locked down, but I." 

She trails off and Missouri clucks her tongue, says, "If you don't wanna tell me, that's fine. Just tell me you're both okay." 

Michaela licks her lips. "I found Dean Winchester. And I'm going to see him. I need his help." 

Whatever reaction Michaela was expecting from Missouri, it wasn't this silence, so deep and intense that it makes Michaela want to pull off to the side of the highway. There's no shoulder, though, not right here, so she keeps driving, hands on the wheel, eyes focused on the road in front of her, waiting. 

"I hope you know what you're doing," Missouri finally says. "That boy's given all he has for this world. If he wants to be left alone, the best we can do is leave him to it. Now, I'm not saying I ever wanted to, and I definitely don't think it's the right choice, but I've made my peace with it. You should too." She pauses, then asks, "It's serious enough to pull him back in?"

"Yeah," Michaela says. "Yeah, Missouri, it is. I can't do it without him." 

Missouri lets out a deep breath, whistle riding the edges of that sound. "You're one of the best hunters of your generation," she says, "and you've trained more than a few of the others. If you need him, you need him. But it's not gonna be easy to get him moving again. You're gonna need something he can't ignore, something he's not gonna be able to turn his back on."

Michaela swallows, says, "I know. And I've got it."

"Are you," Missouri starts to say, but she stops herself, says, "No. Don't tell me. You've been keeping it close for a good reason, if you're hinting at what I think you're hinting at. I don't want to know. You just be careful, Michaela baby, you hear me? And go easy on him. Dean's -- Dean never had it easy, okay? Even though he's left the rest of us, the rest of _it_ behind, that doesn't mean it's any easier now." 

"I know," Michaela says again. 

It's another mile before Missouri says, "I'll pray for you, 'Kaela-girl. You're gonna need it." 

"Thanks, Missouri," Michaela says. "That's more than I'd hoped for." 

\--

Most of Michigan passes in a blur of trees and blue sky. The scenery changes when she gets to Saginaw and again after Toledo; by the time she's passed through Ohio, jumped on I-71 in Cincinnati, and is on the outskirts of Louisville, she's finished listening to eight episodes of her favourite podcast and is so hungry she's about ready to eat her own hand. She's going to have to stop by a drive-thru or a grocery store because this long in the car with only gas station snacks and energy drinks is not going to cut it, not with another ten hours to go before she makes it to the Gulf. 

Just about the time Michaela's trying to decide whether to stop here for the night or power through with some Red Bull and No-Doz, her phone buzzes. 

     _Don't you dare keep going, Mick. Get some fucking sleep._

Rosie. 

Michaela feels guilt pull at her belly. Rosie wouldn't be so touchy if Michaela was home. Their bond is tight but distance stretches it and leaves Rosie's mind vulnerable, open to everyone else. Plus, with the added strain Rosie has of keeping a shield around Michaela's mind so that no one else gets a whiff of what she's trying to do, well. Michaela should never have waited so long in Michigan, should never have sat outside that house for a week, should've gone straight to Alabama in the first place. 

    _Just get some sleep. That'll help us both._

Another hour, then. That should put Michaela halfway to Bowling Green. 

Still, before she picks up I-65 on the south side of Louisville, she goes through three separate drive-thrus and has found a halfway decent classic rock station on the radio. With Led Zeppelin in her ears and a burger in her hand, curly fries and an apple pastry on the empty seat next to her, Michaela could almost pretend this is like any other road trip to any other hunt. 

Almost. 

\--

The next day passes in a haze. Tennessee is there and gone, easily forgotten apart from construction near Nashville that snarls up traffic for an extra hour, and Alabama's pretty enough, scenery changing as she leaves the Appalachians and drives through rolling hills and gentle plains down to the Gulf. Birmingham, Montgomery, then Mobile's on the horizon. The phone's been quiet apart from a few texts and emails from Rosie and Lucas; Michaela's spent most of the day arguing with NPR and trying not to think about what she's going to do once she's found her way to Dean's front door. 

It's evening when she drives through Mobile and makes it, finally, to I-10. Seeing that sign, even this far from home, sends a pang of homesickness through her chest that's nearly strong enough to have her keep driving past her exit, aiming for west Texas and not looking back. 

She doesn't, though. Rosie'd made reservations for her at the only motel in Bayou la Batre, so Michaela drives until she sees the place in her windshield. She parks, staggers out of the car, stretches and feels joints all over her body pop. 

Michaela checks in, grabs a bite to eat at the Waffle House down the street, and decides not to ruin Dean Winchester's last night of peace. Missouri was right: he deserves this much before she waltzes into his life and tears it down past the foundations. 

It's such a beautiful evening, clear and hot, the breeze coming off the Gulf enough to make the humidity seem like something much less than it really is, and Michaela finds herself laying on the trunk of her car until the sun's gone down and the stars have come out. She can feel a slight burn on her nose and she's pretty sure her freckles have come out, but it's worth it. This silence and stillness is worth it. Rosie should've been here to see it. There's no way Michaela will ever be able to describe it. 

"Calm before the storm," she tells herself, and goes into her room, locking the door behind her. It's the work of minutes to make sure the door and windows are salted and warded, that there's a gun under her pillow and a knife under the mattress, that she's ready to go at first light. 

"Night, Rosie," she murmurs, tucking herself under the covers. The air conditioning in her room is _intense_ ; she got a chill walking from the bathroom to the bed in her pyjama top and shorts and the sheets are cool against her skin but hold the promise that they'll warm up quickly. "Miss you." 

\--

First light comes too quick. Michaela takes a quick, cold shower, washing her hair. Towel wrapped around her, she quickly and evenly puts her mass of wavy, dishwater-blonde hair into a tight French braid before she gets dressed. She's not exactly sure what this day's going to hold so she digs her favourite worn pair of jeans out of her duffel and puts them on along with a tank top, pulls on her lucky socks and her grape-coloured sneakers, tucks a knife into the leg holster, puts a couple paper-clips in her back pockets, loops some garotte wire around her wrist like a bangle, makes sure her gun's locked, loaded, and ready to go before tucking it into the back of her jeans and pulling on a loose t-shirt. Overkill, probably, but Michaela's taught all the others that it's better to be too prepared than not prepared enough, so she's willing to live with it. 

Once she's cleaned the room and packed her stuff, Michaela takes one look around, trying to recapture the serenity she felt last night. She fails, fails miserably, and her pulse is erratic as she leaves and lets the door lock behind her. 

\--

It's a quick drive to Coden. Cute little place, couple of grocery stores, not too many places to go out to eat, seems mostly quiet, and she's close, she can feel it. At some point she hangs a right, then a couple more turns and she's looking at the Gulf. It's not the exact same view from her vision but it's close, so very close, so Michaela slows down, keeps an eye on the water and thanks God that there's no traffic. 

When she sees it, when it fits, _perfectly_ , she coasts to a stop and looks to her right. Unkempt grass. Gravel drive. A trailer peeking out from behind some trees and the rusted-out hulk of a car right next to it. Her heart skips a beat. 

From what she can see, the trailer's facing the water; if Dean's awake, then he's seen her already so there's no point in trying to hide, pass the lot and park somewhere down the road, creep back on foot. Brazenly, Michaela turns onto the drive and parks near the trailer, behind the car. Impala, '67 -- she can see, now, how it became as much of a legend as the Winchester family themselves and it kills something inside of her to know what's become of it. So many people have talked and whispered and gossiped about that car and now it's here, salt air eating away at it, left to the caprices of the humid air and the Gulf spray and fucking bird shit. 

"You wanted peace," Michaela murmurs, unclicking her seatbelt, taking a deep breath, "but this isn't peace. This is a slow death. Well, not any more, Dean Winchester."

\--

She doesn't knock. She doesn't pick the lock, either; the door's open and the screen's battering lightly at its frame, carried away and back by the morning breeze off the water. Michaela walks inside, doesn't see salt or a devil's trap or even a bell and yeah, this is practically screaming suicide. 

"You here to kill me?" 

"You'd be lucky if I was," Michaela snaps back, answering the emotionless question with a little fire of her own. She turns to the right, following the sound of that voice, and stops in the doorway to a small, empty living room. 

Michaela takes in the room with quick, professional eyes; catalogues the knife on the wall and the gun right underneath it, the amulet draped over a nail and hanging on the wall like some kind of rosary or crucifix. There's nothing else on the wall, no furniture save a rocking chair facing out the windows, toward the Gulf. 

He's in the rocking chair, staring outside and ignoring her. She takes the time to stand there and look him over. He's shorter than Michaela expected, maybe shorter than her, and he's hunched over in the chair, spine curved to match the rocking motion, back and forth, back and forth. His arms are littered with scars and it looks as though he's missing a chunk out of one foot. He looks old and lonely, only a beer to keep him company along with the crick-creak of a ceiling fan going 'round and 'round above his head, painting shadows on the walls and floor. 

"If you're not here to kill me, then tell me what you want or go away," he finally says, still facing the window. 

"You're Dean?" she asks, and he snorts, takes a last long swallow of his beer and lets the bottle drop to the floor. It rolls, stops when it hits the wall. "Dean Winchester?" 

"Who wants to know?" She thinks he seems, seems and sounds, so much older than middle-aged, like he's lived and fought in wars that lasted centuries. From the things Michaela's heard, he has. People, other hunters, aren't entirely convinced he's still alive but if he is, they say, then it's a miracle. That's right before they generally roll their eyes and say that he's too stubborn to die, doesn't want to give hell or heaven the satisfaction. 

"I'm looking for Dean Winchester," Michaela says. She swallows, prays that Rosie was right this whole time, and screws up her courage to add, "My uncle." 

If she thought the sound of the fan and his breathing as it mirrored the waves outside was bad, she has to take it back when he turns in the rocking chair to face her. She'd expected the long line down one cheek, white and puckered with age, and the gray around his temples. She hadn't been expecting the opaque glasses covering his eyes, though; no one warned her about that. 

It's unnerving, especially when he has cheekbones like hers and freckles like hers, though the nose is slightly different, that and the shape of the chin. She wonders, idly, what colour his eyes are or were, whether they match what she sees in the mirror every day. The thought makes her shiver. 

He doesn't say anything but she can decipher the look he's wearing with ease, even with the glasses covering his eyes and the look he must be laying on her. It's something in the cant of his shoulders and the way the muscles of his arms are bunched where they're gripping the rocking chair. 

"I was adopted," Michaela says. Her mouth is dry; she's not sure what she expected from this moment, one she's been avoiding for months, but all she can think about is the tension in his shoulders and how fucking dry her mouth is. It makes Michaela want to bark out a nervous laugh but she licks her lips, instead, and says, "I've been trying to find my birth parents for years. My birth mother's dead, she died before I turned one, and my dad." She hesitates; this close to an answer and she can barely get the words out. "My dad's your brother. Sam." 

"Dean died a long time ago," he says, shaking his head as he turns back to the window and the ocean beyond it. 

She thinks that he's expecting her to leave after that but she doesn't. She takes a step inside the room and says, "Yeah, I know. St. Louis. But that wasn't you. And you didn't die in that Colorado police station, either." 

She sees his grip tighten then slack entirely but he doesn't say anything, doesn't move. 

"When I was six months old," she says, and he stands up, face pale, as he steps toward her. He doesn't look as old and world-weary when he's standing, and she sees that she's not that much taller than him, after all. "When I was six months old, my birth mother died," she says. His face shutters, closes off from her. "I was five when I had my first vision. My parents, my adoptive parents, they believed me when I told them what was happening to me and they trained me as best they could. When they couldn't do anything else, they found other people. Teachers." 

He's toe-to-toe with her now and she reads longing in the way his fingers shake with the urge to touch her. He must be seeing someone else in the angles of her face, maybe two someone elses -- if he can see. The stories aren't clear on that, never have been. 

"I found you," she whispers. "You are Dean. Right? My uncle?" 

His hand is callused as it rests on the curve of her cheek, thumb sweeping under her eye. "Why have you been looking?" he asks, voice croaking in a whisper. 

"I'll only tell Dean," she says. 

He smiles, lets his hand fall. "Yeah," he admits, letting the word out with a layer of tension and a breath that he's been holding, carrying, for what seems like years. "You found me. Why were you looking?" 

"My name's Michaela," she says. "Michaela Johnson. And I need your help." 

"I don't hunt anymore," Dean tells her. "This is my home, now." 

Michaela takes a deep breath and says, "My dad's alive." 

\--

A moment later, she's pressed against the wall, Dean's arm across her throat, the other one holding a knife right to her eye. It's not the knife from the wall, it's a different one, and it makes her feel the slightest bit better to know that Dean -- her uncle, her _blood_ \-- wasn't just sitting here waiting for someone to kill him after all. 

"You're lying," Dean says, and it's only Michaela's imagination that the crick-creak of the fan speeds up and that there's the hint of a growl underlying Dean's words. "You're. Sam's been gone for _years_. He sacrificed himself for this fucked up world and no one." 

Dean cuts himself off. The knife by Michaela's eyes doesn't waver. She doesn't move, doesn't say anything, just meets the gaze of those opaque glasses and doesn't blink. 

"He would've come for me if he was back," Dean says. "He would've. He knew where I was."

"With Lisa and Ben," Michaela says. Dean snarls and she's near the point of not being able to breathe, but she says, soothingly, like she's trying to calm down a spooked horse, "They're safe. We keep an eye on them. They miss you, y'know? Ben got married a couple years ago and wanted to invite you to the wedding but no one knew how to find you. He's doing good, has a kid of his own now, brings his family out to visit every summer."

The pressure's lightened a little, not much but enough that Michaela's not surprised when Dean asks, "Why do you think he's back? _When_ did he get back?"

"Not long ago," Michaela says. "It was -- we have this friend, called Charlie. She's -- it's kind of a long story, but she lives in Michigan and she heard some things, put a few other things together and asked me to look. I didn't -- I can't see him, in my visions. Can't see you either, no matter how hard I try, but there's a space around you and around him. It feels the same." Michaela takes a deep breath, as much as she can, and says, "I went up to see him. Just came from his place. I couldn't knock on the door, though. I couldn't -- I saw him. From a distance. It's him, Dean. But I wasn't." 

She stops, as close to tears as she ever gets, and Dean holds her there for a long moment before he lets her go. He steps back, watching as she swallows, rubs her neck, but doesn't otherwise move. 

"You have a knife on your shin," he says. "Gun tucked into your jeans, and that's a hell of a nice bracelet. Why? You afraid of me?"

"Yeah," Michaela says, tilting her chin up just a little. Dean smirks, seeing it and hearing her honest answer. "But that's not what you really want to know, is it? I have visions, Dean; you think I'd be able to see them and do nothing? Just sit back and know people are gonna die? Fuck that. I'm a hunter."

Dean studies her, much the way she did to him when she first walked in. She's wearing short sleeves which means he can see the scarred claw marks on her arm, and Rosie's always teased her about the mark above her eyebrow from a stray vampire fang, says it makes Michaela look roguish and mysterious. Her nose has been broken more than once and her knuckles are permanently bruised and she holds herself like something deadly, has for a long time now. 

"Following in the family business," Dean says. "Nothing good has ever come from that. You should've." He stops, rubs his forehead, and turns away from her. "If they gave you up it was for a good reason. You should've stayed far away from this life, Michaela. It doesn't bring anything but death." 

"It can do a lot of good for a lot of people," she says. 

Silence falls in the trailer, Dean staring out of the window, Michaela leaning up against the wall. There's not that much space between them but it feels like there is, a million miles of two distinct lives, two histories, so much loss. 

"Come with me," she says. "Please." 

Dean's shoulder drop. He turns back to her, gives her a wry smile. "I thought I'd die here, y'know? Thought I'd -- that something would come and kill me in my sleep or that a hurricane might drown me or that I'd just finally get so old and so worn out I just wouldn't." He stops, exhales a deep breath. "You're sure it's Sam." 

"Positive." 

"Well," Dean says. He nods once, looks around the bare, decrepit room, and nods again. "I'll get packed. It, uh." He scratches the back of his neck, looks and sounds a little sheepish. It suits him. "It won't take long."

It's a hollow sort of victory but it's a victory nonetheless.

\--

Dean sits in the passenger seat like he's offended by life. It takes him halfway to Mobile to get the seat the right distance from the dashboard so he can put his feet up on it, and he keeps twisting and turning and playing with the seat belt and halfway reaching for the radio. 

" _Dude_ ," she finally says, when she can't take it anymore. "What the hell is your problem?"

"This car is a piece of shit," he says. 

If they weren't on the interstate, hightailing their asses up to Michigan, Michaela would slam on the brakes and hope he'd break a leg. If he didn't, she'd pull him out of the car, break his leg for him, and leave him on the side of the road. But they are on the interstate and they are in a hurry. 

"Well, if you hadn't fucked up that prime piece of metal you had, we could've taken that," Michaela snaps at him. "But your baby's a rusted out gas-guzzler and it's six bucks a gallon right now, so be thankful my car's a hybrid, all right, and suck it up." Dean snorts, mutters something about hybrid engines under his breath, and family or not, no one talks about Michaela's car that way. "I have put this thing together from the ground up more than once, asshole," she says. "You might be stuck living in the stone age but some of us aren't, and my girl here's put her time in and saved me more than once, so if you would just _shut up_ , I'd appreciate it."

Dean looks over at her, something unflattering caught on the tip of his tongue, and Michaela almost wants him to say it just so she can get the measure of this man and maybe find out what his blood feels like on her knuckles. He stops, though, and asks, "You rebuilt her? Know a lot about cars?"

"Know enough you should be arrested for letting that Impala go the way you have," she mutters. "S'gonna take for-freaking-ever to get her back in road shape."

Michaela can feel Dean watching her; she doesn't look away from the road, doesn't say anything, just settles into a watchful readiness, mind keen and waiting to react to whatever Dean says or does. 

He finally grins, just a small smile, but it changes his face so much and carves out deep lines around his eyes and mouth, smile lines that have been there a long time, must've, because he's had precious little to smile about in years. 

"It's good to know that you didn't get that from Sam," Dean says. There's a tension to his jaw as he says that, enough to make Michaela shut up and accept it. It's tentative, tenuous, the first time Dean's mentioned Sam in a long time. "Put him under the hood of a car and he'd break the carburetor just by looking at it."

Michaela treasures it, this speck of information about her father; she's wanted to know about him for so long. "Who'd I get it from, then?" she asks. "'Cause, I mean, yeah, I took some classes and worked in a garage a little, but engines've always made sense to me. It's a family thing?"

The smile drops off of Dean's face. Michaela would curse, seeing Dean's face fade back into blankness, watching him turn to look out the window instead of at her. But then he says, "Kinda. You must've got it from me. I rebuilt the Impala a few times. Tried to teach Sam how to change the oil a dozen times but the kid always messed it up. 'Bout the only thing he could do if anything happened was call a tow truck."

Michaela snorts. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Dean relax, just a little, even though he doesn't look at her again. 

\--

He's quiet, doesn't say another word until they're halfway between Montgomery and Birmingham. 

Michaela doesn't mind the quiet; sometimes when Rosie's on a hunt with her, or one of the other kids, they fall asleep and she turns off the radio, just drives and hums to the rhythm of the expansion joints in asphalt and concrete. This time, being so far from Rosie, knowing Rosie's listening in and keeping an eye on Michaela's thoughts, she's just keeping up a stream-of-consciousness conversation, one-sided though it may be without Rosie actually here to respond. 

_\--never thought I'd actually get to meet him, y'know? Even before I found out he was my uncle. They're such legends, him and Sam -- my uncle and my father. It's a lot to live up to. Doesn't seem real yet, being this close. Halfway there to knowing both of them. But, I mean, how much can we really know each other, right? There's too much. And they'll have each other. They won't -- I mean, it's ridiculous, right, what do I think is gonna happen? They'll be back together and I'll have their number and they'll call sometimes, that's the best it can be. It's not like they're gonna move out to the ranch and live with us and be a family. They already have a family. And y'know what, Rosie, I do, too. It may not be blood, but it's mine. You're mine. You're all I need. I said it before we did that stupid bonding and I don't even care that you can't leave now because I'm not letting you go and--_

"We never used to take the interstate." 

Michaela jumps, drawn out of her thoughts, and looks over at Dean. It doesn't seem like he even realises he said anything, so she makes an inquiring little noise and tries to be patient. Dean's probably not used to being in the same space as another human being for this long, probably hasn't spent as long with anyone in years as he has her this morning. It's kind of sad, thinking about it like that, but also kind of infuriating. 

"We used to avoid interstates, mostly," he finally goes on. "Took a lot of old US highway, state highways. Mostly back country roads."

"Why's that?" Michaela asks. 

Dean shrugs one shoulder, shifts in the seat, tugs, again, at the seat belt. "Best to stay away from cops, I guess," he says. "And it helped that we were never really in too much of a hurry. When we were, I dunno, it was always easier to get away with speeding on the back roads. Less traffic. Better to see the country, too. We had a few hunts in big towns but most of them were in little podunk places where a disappearance or a weird murder actually made the papers. Not a lot of interstates go through small town America." 

All of that makes complete sense. 

"I don't usually like highways either," Michaela admits, "but I figured we were in kind of a hurry."

That _does_ make Dean turn and face her; the sun hits his glasses, shines off of them and catches on the crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. "Why's that?" he asks, now suspicious. "You know something I don't? Sam. He's okay, right? He's not in trouble?"

"Not that I know of," Michaela says. "I just. I thought you'd want to see him. And I've been away from home too long."

She aches, thinking of Rosie in pain. 

Dean keeps looking at her for the next four miles; Michaela counts the mile-markers and waits for Dean to do something or say something. He sits back, eventually, and takes a deep breath. "Sorry," he says. "It's just."

"Automatic," Michaela says. "It's all right. I get it."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, and he can't keep the disbelief out of his voice. "You got a brother or sister?" 

Michaela laughs, shakes her head and says, "About a dozen who'd claim it of me, if I'd let them. Nah, I got a girl. Woman," she corrects herself. "She can take care of herself but I worry like crazy when I'm not around. There are -- reasons." And there's no better time to bring it up, so Michaela adds, "You met her once, actually."

Dean's frowning when Michaela glances over; "I did?" 

The yellow-eyed demon's kind of a sore spot for Michaela. Azazel died long before she'd ever heard the name but he's the one who killed her mother and her grandmother, probably more of her family than just those two if the rumours are right, and he's the one who kickstarted this whole thing with her father. So yeah, she doesn't like to talk about the demon much at all. But if there's one person on this planet who can understand and might even win on sympathy points if it ever came down to a contest between them, it's her uncle. 

"Long time ago. Rosie Holt," Michaela says. "She was six months old when you met her. Salvation." 

"Iowa," Dean says, at the same time Michaela does. She stops talking but Dean goes on. "Holy shit. She must be, what, twenty, twenty-one now? And she's your. How the fuck did you meet?"

Michaela grins. It's a story that she likes to tell but Rosie hates, so she doesn't get an excuse to trot it out very often. She sends Rosie an apology and a shrug that says 'family?' and prays she won't have to sleep on the couch when she gets home. 

"I told you that I started having visions when I was five, yeah?" she says. Dean nods. "Well, by the time I was twelve, my parents had run out of ways to help me and were looking for teachers. We moved to Kansas for a while. Lawrence," she says. 

Dean's attention is piqued, she can tell, and he's focused entirely on her. "Missouri Mosely," he says. "Fuck. She's still around?"

"And would smack you over the head with her newest wooden spoon if she heard you using that kind of language," Michaela says. 

She and Dean smile at each other, the exact same smile, the exact same humour, and Michaela hates the world _so very much_ that she was cheated out of this her whole life. 

The demon's to blame but sometimes she can't help feeling like maybe her father holds some culpability as well. 

"Anyway, while I was there, in walks this ten year old with a wicked grin on her face and she takes one look at me and says, 'Oh, thank _fuck_ , I didn't even know you were real but oh my god, please shut the hell _up_.' Two seconds later, Missouri broke a wooden spoon right on Rosie's head and said, 'Lord help me, there's two of 'em.'"

Dean's laughing. "She -- she _broke_ the spoon? What did she mean, two of you?"

Michaela shakes her head, smiling, and says, "She'd only had that spoon for a couple days. Earlier in the week, she broke the old one on _my_ head." 

\--

It takes them both a while to calm down; Dean had laughed but quickly dropped deep into thought, and Michaela's thankful for the chance to reminisce. She likes to remember that year -- it was a good year, for both of them, before things got complicated and twisted. She thinks maybe it's the Winchester in her, that every good little thing is taken away all too quickly, that she's asked to bear more than she thinks she can handle sometimes, but all the Winchester stories say that Dean had Sam and Sam had Dean; Michaela's pretty sure she's more like her uncle than her father and if that's the case, then Rosie's her Sam. As long as she has Rosie, she has everything she needs. A sister would've been nice, but Rosie's perfect. 

\--

"So, Rosie," Dean says, and he's careful with her name like he respects it, understands who and what she is to Michaela just from the few things Michaela's said about her. "Why was she at Missouri's?"

Michaela glances at Dean, quickly, before turning her attention back to the road. She debates answering, thinks about not answering, and says, "It's kind of a long story." 

Dean shrugs. "We've got time. Ten hours on the road until we get to Michigan, don't know how long after that. Could be enough." 

Could be, but Dean's family, blood, and if she's going to do this right, she should tell him the good and the bad. There's no way she can do that and drive at the same time. She says as much and Dean says, "I could drive."

Michaela bites back the instant refusal. She looks over at Dean, sees him watching the road in front of them like he wants to eat up the miles; they both do. This would go better over beer and maybe half a bottle of Cuervo but neither of them are going to want to stop for the night, not when they're on the way to _Sam_ and all that he is to both of them. "When's the last time you spent any decent chunk of blacktop behind the wheel?" 

"Now I know you aren't suggesting that I've forgotten how to _drive_ ," Dean says, sounding completely taken aback and offended at the same time. It's a skill, that's for sure. "Just because I haven't been out traipsing around the country trying to get myself killed doesn't mean I've forgotten how to drive. Dude."

"Sorry," Michaela says, laughing. "Didn't mean to insult your manhood, jesus. We're forty five minutes from Birmingham. We can stop, get some lunch and gas, switch then. Sound good?" 

Dean nods. 

\--

It's a fast stop and they're back on the road fifteen minutes later. Dean's behind the wheel and he's not complaining about the way the seat's molded to the shape of Michaela's body or the number of metres and gauges on the dashboard, plus he's eating pretty neatly despite the heaps of mayonnaise on his burger. Michaela's stretched out in the passenger seat, sneakers off and feet on the dash, picking at her chicken nuggets. 

Dean glances over at her, enough so that she can see the turn of his glasses, but waits until he's done and has tossed the wrapper in the back seat and slurped down half of his Coke before he says, "So. You and Rosie. What happened?" 

"What do you mean, what happened?" Michaela asks. She's resisting the urge to smack Dean on the shoulder for throwing his garbage around; there's a reason the take-out bag's resting between them. 

"Well, it's gotta be something bad, right?" Dean asks. "I mean, if you didn't wanna drive and talk about it, things have to be fucked up at some point." 

Michaela lets out a bitter chuckle and says, "At some point? Most points. Is our family cursed or something?" 

It's Dean's turn to sound bitter as he says, "I've wondered more than once, believe me." 

"Sorry," Michaela says, after a minute. "I've had to deal with some fucked up shit but it's nothing like what I've heard you have. I don't have a right to bitch." 

"You always have a right to bitch," Dean tells her, cutting her off before she can say any more. "I don't know what you've heard about -- what kind of stories are out there, I mean. There've always been stories about our family. Doesn't mean they're true. And, I mean, I don't know you but you don't seem like the type to wallow in misery or anything. So if you wanna bitch, go ahead." 

Michaela nods, looks down at her hands. "Yeah," she says. "I know. Still, you don't deserve me unloading on you. Not when I -- whatever." Dean's quiet, waiting for Michaela to gather her thoughts. It's a nice kind of quiet, though, the kind that means Dean understands exactly what she means, what she's feeling. "Anyway. So. It took us a while to put things together, but Rosie was one of Azazel's kids, was supposed to be, but you and Sam stopped him before he could do anything to her. Thanks for that, by the way. I don't know if anyone's told you." 

Dean nods, half-shrugs, a jerky motion. He's about as good as receiving gratitude as she is, then. One more thing they have in common. 

"She was born psychic," Michaela finally says. "Telepathic. Mind-reading. I guess, whatever Azazel was gonna do to her, it was gonna wall up that part of her until he decided he wanted to break it open and use it." 

"So when we stopped him," Dean says, "it didn't -- shit. Even as a kid?" 

Michaela picks at the grease under her thumbnail. Seems like it never really goes away. "Her whole life. She figured out pretty young how to deal with it, but when Missouri was training me, something about the wavelengths my vision were on, it hit her pretty hard. Harder than anyone else, even her family. She ran away from home and tracked me down just by listening to my thoughts. I'd never seen her in my visions but the first time I looked at her, it was like something broke open in me, too." 

Dean's listening, a quiet and solid presence, and it almost makes Michaela jump when he asks, "Broke what?" 

"Up to that point," she says, "the visions were pretty -- not sporadic, but I could deal with them. After that, though, I started having them all the time. It was like living with this constant double vision, the visions overlaid on top of reality until I couldn't make out which was which. I was lucky I was already at Missouri's. Rosie and I, we -- she can do this thing where she can focus all her telepathy on one mind. It calms her, stops her from being bombarded with dozens or hundreds of minds. She taught me how to do it, too."

"Makes sense," Dean says, once he's had time to process that. Michaela hums in question and Dean tilts his head. "I mean, if she uses you and you use her, you guys don't really have any secrets from each other. You're living in each other's heads, _literally_."

Michaela smiles. "It worked for a while. Keeping focused on each other. We could do that and it was enough to get us both through the day." The smile fades, then, and she says, "It didn't last. We -- her gift is _strong_ , Dean. Eventually the only option was to bind ourselves together. We'd always been a matched set but after that."

"You okay?" Dean asks. "Being away from her for this long?" 

"It's not easy," Michaela says, exhaling. "It's harder on Rosie." 

Dean nods, says, "Which makes you feel guiltier. I get it, trust me. She can handle herself, though? Someone else is keeping an eye on her?" 

That question has Michaela grinning wide and she says, "Fuck, Dean, oh my god, you're not -- so we live in the middle of nowhere, right? It's further away from people and gives Rosie a bit of breathing room and we have this amazing ranch and a whole herd of horses and Rosie's got chickens and a couple cows but. We call our place Sanctuary. It's -- we've heard stories of what the Roadhouse was like, back when you and Sam were -- and before that. Our place is like that. Safe. Stocked up. And I, uh." 

"You, _uh_?" Dean pushes. 

"I sort of. Um. Train others. Other hunters," she says. "People my age, they sort of just show up, sometimes? But there are others you'd recognise, even apart from the Braedons. Lucas, I don't know if you remember him, from Wisconsin, he's there with Rosie now, and Michael, from some hunt you did in Fitchburg? Tyler, you might remember him, he's not hunting but he visits when he needs to get away from the snow during the winter. There are a few others, kids you and Sam saved, mostly, or relatives, and." Michaela trails off at the look on Dean's face and asks, "What?" 

Dean lets out a sigh. "The family business, huh," he says. "Saving people, hunting things. And apparently running some kind of hunter academy, now. Did you ever think that maybe it'd be a good idea to try and get these kids to choose something else? This isn't a good life, not by any stretch of the imagination." 

Michaela's gaping, can't help it, but by the time she realises what she's doing, she pissed off. Eyes narrowed, she lets her feet drop to the floor and says, "Fuck you, Dean. Fuck you and fuck that. You don't get to make that kind of choice for anyone else, okay? And it's not like you were out there, keeping people safe from things that go bump in the night. What, you think the world just, just hit pause while you were pity-partying it up down in bumfuck, Alabama?" 

"Watch it," Dean says, and it's a warning, voice low and rough and full of anger that sounds old and worn-in. 

"No, _you_ watch it," Michaela says, full of fire and ready to go down swinging. "You think I don't worry about every single person that comes in and out of our doors? You think I don't know that most of 'em'll die before they last a year on the road? You think it's _easy_ for me to watch our kind of life tear people -- _good_ people -- down to bone? I do everything I can to warn them and if they don't wanna listen the way I didn't wanna listen or the way you didn't wanna listen, then so help me god I will move heaven and earth to make sure they're as prepared as they can be and that they have a safe place to retreat to if they need it." She takes a deep breath, sits back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest. "Fucking good ideas, my _ass_."

Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel, relax a moment later. "Sorry," he says, and now he's thrown her off-balance again. The last thing she expected was an apology. "You're right, it's not my place to say anything about how you live your life. I. Yeah."

Michaela stares at him, then fishes out the last McDonald's apple pie from the drive-thru bag and thrusts it in Dean's direction like some kind of peace offering. Dean takes his glance off the road long enough to take in the pastry, then her face, before he accepts it with a muttered thanks. 

"Anyway, the binding we did," Michaela says, once she's calmed down, "it wasn't easy and it took us a long time to adjust to it. We had to stay in physical contact for a few months, then in each other's sight. It was about a year before we could be more than ten miles apart. We both had to quit school and get our GEDs instead, and we moved around a lot. She was on the run from her family and I was, well, looking for mine, but when I turned eighteen we found Sanctuary. It was old and run-down and," she pauses, shakes her head, says, "perfect," with a smile on her face. "People started just showing up one day and it's been like that ever since." 

"Sounds like a decent life," Dean says. "A home, someone you love, even, what'd you say, chickens in the back yard? White picket fence, too?" 

Michaela laughs, says, "Posts are hollowed out and filled with salt, so're the running beams, and our land's fenced out in a devil's trap. I'm not taking any chances with Rosie." 

"She's a target?" Dean asks, then immediately says, "Of course she is. One of the demon's kids, as powerful a telepath as you're talking about, someone who knows all about our world and has a close-up link to a seer." He whistles, long and low, and Michaela's gut clenches because _finally_ someone gets it and gets it _instantly_. "Why didn't you bring her with you?" 

Michaela's phone, resting in one of the cupholders and plugged into the charger, rings. 

" _At last_ ," Etta James croons, " _my love has come along_." 

"Rosie," Michaela says, and thinks, _Answering you on speaker, babe,_ as she answers the call and pushes the speaker button. 

There's a hum and a crackle, the faint sound of wind-chimes in the distance, and Rosie says, "Hi, Uncle Dean. It's nice to meet you now that I can talk." 

Dean snorts, there's a visible smile and a hint of those eye-crinkles, and Michaela thinks, _You are amazing and what did I ever do to deserve you but seriously, you lead with_ Uncle Dean?

"Nice to meet you again, too," Dean says. "Michaela was just telling me about how you two, uh, met."

Michaela groans. 

Rosie laughs, says, "Mick, you're on the couch for a week. You know how much I hate people knowing that story!" 

"You miss me more than you hate that story," Michaela says, fake-leering. "No way I get exiled." 

"Yeah, maybe not the first night," Rosie says, "but once I've had my wicked way with you, you'll be glad to be on the couch," and Dean laughs long and loud and hard enough that the car drifts to the edge of the lane. 

For the first time since she decided to go and track Dean down, Michaela feels like this was the right decision. 

"What's up?" she asks, once Dean's laughter has died down. "Everything okay? Lucas hasn't broken the sink again, has he, because I swear, the toolbox ban is still in effect and I told him to wait and leave any problems around the ranch for me to fix when I get back." 

"Hey!" a voice cries out, sounds like maybe from another room because it's barely loud enough to hear. "I haven't broken anything and I never broke the sink in the first place! It was already broke!" 

Michaela groans out, " _Broken_ , already _broken_ , Lucas, jesus. You have a degree; how can your grammar be worse than mine when I didn't even finish high school?" 

"Because I proofed his papers," Rosie says, "and we both cheated on our exams. Now," she says, as Dean's sputtering and the laughter in the background of Rosie's end of the call fades out, "I did have an actual reason for calling. Mick, have you been keeping an eye on yourself or have you just been focused on me?" 

"Why?" Michaela says, instantly alert. "What've you heard?" 

Rosie lets out a breath between her teeth, sounds as if she's moving. Michaela hears a door a second later, sound of the wind-chimes louder now. "Nothing concrete," Rosie finally says. "It's just. Constant, around you. There's a, a humming." 

Michaela curses under her breath and tells Dean, "Drive faster and _do not stop_ , not for anything." A second later, the car jumps beneath his touch and the engine purrs louder as he pours on the revs. "What kind of hum, Rosie? Come on, babe, tell me so I can start looking." 

"I don't _know_ ," Rosie says. "It's not demon. I think."

"You _think_?" Michaela asks, incredulous, even as she's reaching around to the back seat and grabbing her backpack, pulling it to her lap. "Rose Holt, you've known _exactly_ what a demon's mind has felt like since you were fourteen."

Rosie snaps, "I know that, Mick, _damn it_ , will you just shut your fucking mouth and listen to me? Something is tracking you and I _don't know what it is_."

That's insane. Rosie's touched every kind of supernatural mind there is and knows what each of them feel like. She's good enough to just _graze_ a supernatural mind and know the exact moon-age of a were or length of possession. For Rosie to not know -- it sends chills down Michaela's spine.

"Exactly," Rosie says, softer. Dean glances at Michaela, gets that Rosie gleaned something from Michaela's thoughts that calmed her down a little. "Mick. Please. Stop watching me and keep an eye on your own six, okay?"

"She will," Dean says. Michaela grits her teeth, glares at him, even as he says, "I will, too. Who's keeping an eye on you if she isn't?"

"Lucas is here," Rosie says, "and the land's about as protected as we could make it. Worst comes to worst, I can call in a few of the others who owe us favours." 

_Call them now_ , Michaela tells her. _Don't let them say no. If you can't figure out what's following us then something like it might be coming for you and you're sitting blind, watching me._ Michaela doesn't hear Rosie say anything so she adds, _Please_ , and doesn't even care if it sounds like she's begging. 

That gets through to Rosie and she lets out a breath and says, "Fine. Be careful, Mick. You too, Uncle Dean." 

"Uncle Dean," Dean says, as the call ends. "Jesus christ."

"Gonna take some getting used to?" Michaela asks, digging through her backpack. 

Dean shakes his head, says, "Don't think I'll ever get used to it. Jesus." He takes a deep breath, shakes it off, and asks, "What're you looking for?"

Michaela's elbow-deep in her bag because, fuck, she was in a hurry to pack up in Michigan and she's regretting not taking the time to re-do it properly last night while she was in Bayou la Batre. "A ha," she says, triumphantly, getting her hand around the prescription bottle and yanking it out from under her set of knives, a random pair of earbuds, and a couple journals. "Pain pills. If I get too far away from Rosie for too long, it leaves her vulnerable and she basically passes out. If I start pulling the visions away from her, it just gives me a righteous headache. Sometimes a nosebleed, too, so don't freak out if you see anything."

 

"Anything else I should know?" Dean asks. 

Michaela shakes out two pills onto her palm and pauses, looks at Dean and asks, "This isn't, I dunno, gonna weird you out or anything, right? I mean, me going into trance right next to you?" 

"Just find out what's following us," Dean says, "and if we need to worry about it beating us to Sam." 

"'Kay," Michaela says, and dry-swallows both pills at the same time. 

it's a weird feeling, knowing that someone other than Rosie's looking out for her, keeping her safe while she does this. 

Weird, but good.

\--

_Thump-thump, thump-thump, road, it is the sound of the highway beneath wheels that need more air, cannot stop, though, cannot let them get too far away. Dean Winchester has left his self-imposed exile and he is on the road with a girl who --_

_Thump-thump, thump-thump. She opens her eyes. I am in the back seat, sitting in the middle, and my body is too small for me. I am falling apart, trying to stay inside of it. This vessel was not made for me but it may last just as long as I need it to if they lead us straight there, straight to him._

_I turn my head, look out over the land._

_Voices. Questions. My head is swimming._

_"Are you all right?"_

_I focus. Someone in the front passenger seat, looking at me. Concern. Eyes. The eyes are wrong. I tilt my head, open my mouth. "Something is --"_

Michaela gasps, awake, and instantly curls in on herself, feeling her stomach churn. "Keep driving," she says, panting, trying not to puke because it takes forever to get the smell out of the car and chicken nuggets are, like, her least favourite thing to vomit up. "No cops for the next hundred miles on this stretch of road. I'll watch for them; drive as fast as you want." 

"How fast she can handle, for how long?" Dean asks. 

"Runs like a thoroughbred," Michaela manages to get out before she grits her teeth and throws herself back into trance.

\--

Michaela finally opens her eyes and wipes crusted blood from below her nostrils. It's dark outside; small mercy, her head is killing her. Without looking, she takes out two more pills and swallows them, wincing as the movement makes pain blossom behind her right eye. 

"It's eleven," Dean says, softly.

It sounds like he's yelling; Michaela whimpers and curls in on herself. She gives herself five seconds to rest in the pain, recognise it and accept it and scream against the unfairness of it before she takes a deep breath and starts to rebuild her barriers. It's a long process; it took every ounce of skill she had to keep one eye on the road in front of them and one eye on their tail behind them, not to mention a speck of attention focused on Sam, north of them, and Rosie, way out west. She's not used to stretching herself out so thin for so long and it's only thanks to Missouri's training and hard, painful years that she's able to do it now. 

"We need to get to Houghton Lake," Michaela says. "If we keep going straight through, there's a couple deer on 69 north of the I-94 interchange but no cops and no traffic the rest of the way. Our tail lost us somewhere just past the Kentucky line, maybe when we detoured. They're a good two hours behind us now." 

"It's a useful talent," Dean says, still soft. "We would've lost an hour south of Indy if you hadn't warned me. And we just crossed the Indiana-Michigan border." 

_That_ gives Michaela the strength to open her eyes. They're gritty, her vision is blurry until she blinks a few times, and wow, yeah, there's the sign for the Coldwater exit. "Fuck," she says. "How fast were you driving?" 

"Hey," Dean says, "you told me to push it. I pushed it. But we'll need to stop soon; we need gas and I'm starving." 

"I need to piss like a racehorse," Michaela mutters, feeling gingerly at her nose. 

Dean chuckles, quiet and deep, but it's there, and Michaela thinks, okay, take twenty years and a whole lot of road off his shoulders, she can see where he got his reputation. 

"Not much open at this time of night," Michaela says, the faintest edges of trance still clinging to corners of her mind like cobwebs. "We did McDonald's for lunch. Can you drive and eat Taco Bell at the same time?"

"Been a long time," Dean admits, but there's a smile in his voice, one that shows on his face as he says, "Let's see if I still remember how." 

\--

The kid at the drive-thru window thankfully doesn't ask Dean why he's wearing what looks like sunglasses even though it's dark, just raises an eyebrow and figures it's not his place to ask. Michaela appreciates that, just like she appreciates no one at the gas station talking to her when she walks through, eyes bloodshot and nose still sluggishly letting out a drop of blood every few minutes. 

She pees for what feels like twenty minutes and it feels _so good_.

\--

They get back on the road and Dean remembers about the deer on the highway, slows down right as he's finishing the last of his -- whatever it was he ordered. He's been eating pretty neatly, too; good to know that's a skill like riding a bike. 

"So," Dean says, once he's picked up a stray piece of lettuce from his lap and licked his fingers clean. "Sam's in Houghton Lake?" Michaela nods and Dean asks, "You know what was following us?" 

She swirls her finger in the last of her nacho cheese sauce and sucks on it for a second. "I know enough to know it wasn't human," she finally says. "I mean, it's not a monster that's also human. There were three people in that car and they were all riding bodies. Rosie knew enough to know it wasn't a shapeshifter or a demon and she's right, it didn't feel like them. But it was close to a demon. Too close. Kind of -- kind of vague around the edges, if that makes any sense." 

Dean's silent. She can tell he's thinking about something and thinking hard; how, she's not sure, maybe because they're alike and she knows what his look on her face would mean, maybe because he'd probably otherwise ask her something else. 

Michaela waits him out, chugs down half of her Mountain Dew like it's going out of style and pops a couple Excedrin. 

"Did you or Rosie ever, I dunno," Dean says, too slow and cautious for this to be a casual question, "come across any angels?" 

"Angels?" Michaela echoes. " _Angels_?" 

Dean's jaw clenches. Michaela can feel the car speed up.

\--

She doesn't say anything, just sends a steady stream of information to Rosie. Dean'll talk when it suits him and there isn't any use trying to push. 

_\--so I'm thinking maybe we need to see if we can get any other info from our sources. I kept an eye out and I can see them catching up to us on the other side of Lansing -- how the fuck they can do that, I don't know, because we had a two-hour lead on them -- but we'll beat them to Sam so I'm not going to tell Dean unless he asks. He won't know and it'll spook him, I think. Jesus, my ass has gone numb in this car. Remind me to buy a cushion for this seat; why the hell haven't you said anything to me about this before?_

"Angels are," Dean says, "a bunch of dickless assholes. For the most part."

Michaela raises an eyebrow. "Okay," she drawls. "You gonna give me any more than that?" 

Dean bites his lower lip, then says, "Sam and I, we ran across a few before he -- before I went to Lisa's. Couple of 'em were all right but most of them tried to kill him more than once, wanted me to do the same. How much. I mean, you said you've heard stories. Any of them mention angels?" 

"Mention a guy called Castiel in a trench coat," Michaela says, "but no one came out and just said it like that. Shit. I mean, the name, some of the stuff we found, yeah, but. Angels. Fuck. Why are they going after my -- after Sam?"

"You know how he -- where he's been," Dean says, carefully skirting around the obvious, _how he died_. "Lucifer was free and Sam was his destined vessel and so he let Lucifer in and then dragged the son of a bitch back down to his cage. He was -- there was no way to get him out. I just don't. So yeah, angels. Maybe they think Sam's still got Lucifer in him, I dunno, or they wanna shove him back down to -- back down." 

Michaela bares her teeth and growls, "Like _hell_ they're gonna do that." She'll fight whoever, whatever, she has to; she's just found her _father_ , she's not losing him now, not like this. 

"Hey, there, killer," Dean says. "Calm down. We'll keep Sam safe. See, the thing about angels? Is that we have some heavy-duty ammunition on our side that they won't be able to argue with." 

With that, Dean takes a deep breath and lowers his glasses just enough to glance at her over the top of them. Michaela's mind shies away from what she sees and she's so utterly relieved when he pushes the glasses back high on his nose and looks at the road. 

"What the _fuck_ ," she breathes. 

Nothing. No colour. His eyes are shining and bright and white. No, not white. Dean's eyes are pure sun. 

"It was a gift," he says, gently, but there's an edge of cold murder in the words as well. "Never asked for it, didn't want it, wish I could give it back. But I know how to use it. Angels won't be able to fight me, so as long as we get to Sam's door first, we'll be all right. We will get to Sam's door first, right?" 

"Yeah," Michaela says. The question's enough to jumpstart her brain and she starts gibbering, rapid-fire shooting questions at Rosie and making mental notes to research this in between a steady stream of _fuck_ s and _shit_ s and _god damn it, my family_ is _cursed, I knew it_ s. "You keep up this pace and we'll hit his place in, uh, two hours? Little over." 

Dean nods, says, "Not soon enough," and Michaela isn't sure if she was supposed to hear that or not so she keeps her mouth shut. 

\--

She drifts off to sleep and then --

_A sudden light and noise so piercing and intense that--_

_Communication. Better to talk this way than via the mouths of vessels, more honest, clearer. Cannot overuse it; these vessels cannot hold them for much longer. Just long enough, perhaps. These bodies are too small, too narrow and confined and it stifles grace that longs to spread out and do the Father's will. This is the Father's will. This is the mission. This is --_

_Three. There are three of us and we are in Lansing. We are in Lansing and we are waiting. Waiting for Dean Winchester and the girl who --_

_"They will come."_

_"We will pick up the trail from here."_

_Two voices, separate, and then together: "They will lead us to the host."_

_The third, standing in front, because I am the leader of this garrison and this mission. "They will lead us to our lost brother. And we will raise him up."_

_Three voices, together, the sound of choirs and hosts in their voices, piercing noise and bright, shining light bursting from their vessels: "We will raise him from perdition."_

\-- 

Michaela opens her eyes, says, "Angels don't use contractions?" as she wipes sleep from her eyes and blood from her nose. She doesn't usually get nosebleeds when she has her visions in dreams but on top of the hours and hours she spent looking earlier, she's not exactly surprised. 

"Takes them a while to learn," Dean says. "What'd you see?" 

"They're going to pick up our trail in Lansing," she says. "We can go around, but even if we don't, we still beat them to Sam. They kept saying something about the host, something about a -- a lost brother? And perdition, raising him from perdition." 

Dean doesn't react, not that she can see, but Michaela can feel it, both in the change in air around him and in some subtle shift of the car, either faster or slower or maybe an infinitesimal jerk to the side, she's not sure. 

"What, exactly, did they say about perdition," Dean says. 

It's not a question and Michaela doesn't treat it like one. "There were three of them. One's in charge, two followers, but they're on the same mission, from the same garrison. Two of them, the followers, they said that we'll lead them to the host. And the third, the leader, said that we'll lead them to their lost brother. And that they'll raise him up from perdition." 

"It's what Castiel did," Dean says, when he's steady enough to talk. He doesn't look it, not judging by the tension in every muscle Michaela can see, and doesn't sound it, either, but though the tone's something Michaela doesn't want to poke too hard at, the words are steady. "When I was in hell. I was his mission; he was sent to raise me from perdition." 

Michaela's mind races at the implication but "It doesn't make sense. Why would they need us to lead them to Sam if they're looking for someone in hell?" 

Dean's head tilts in her direction and he says, "You're _positive_ Sam's alive."

"If he's not," Michaela says, same tone, same bite, "then you can do whatever the hell you want to me. He's there, Dean. He just." She stops there, shakes her head. "Maybe he's not alone. Maybe this Castiel, your friend, maybe he's there, too." 

"Maybe that's why Sam's staying in fucking Michigan and not," Dean says, stopping himself. "I don't think Cas would do that, not to me."

Michaela's heart sinks as she asks, "Maybe -- what if something's wrong with him? What if he didn't go looking for you because he couldn't?"

Dean pushes the car just a little bit faster. Michaela's going to owe her car a thorough maintenance run-down and a couple car washes when this is all over. 

The headlights seem very bright in the darkness. 

\--

Michaela jerks in her seat when they switch from the interstate to 127. Her last vision was apparently enough to put a tether on the curiously strange tenor of the lead angel's mind; that doesn't usually happen on its own but she was glued to their minds for hours earlier so it's not as unexpected as it could be. She bites back the curse that automatically rises to her mouth because a fucking tether pulling tight when she's not expecting it is one of the most painful things outside of the visions themselves and focuses on what the tether's telling her. The angels are moving, again, following Michaela and Dean north. 

"They're on our trail," she tells Dean. "Half an hour behind us. We'll still make it to Sam before they do, don't worry." 

"How's traffic on this road?" Dean asks. 

Michaela glances over at the speedometre; they're doing just over one hundred and ten miles an hour. The speed limit's sixty-five here, seventy the rest of the way. Michaela scans the future, carefully poking to see what she needs to see and only that, and says, "A few cars but no police. You can keep this pace up if you want; we'll be okay. And we'll be there in just over an hour. I think the angels are obeying the speed limit so we'll make up some time from that." Dean nods and Michaela looks at him, says, "It's gonna be late when we get there. Or early. But not." 

She trails off and Dean says, "I don't care what time it is. I've woken his ass up before, I'll do it again."

"Fair enough." 

\--

Dean finally slows down a couple miles south of the exit for Houghton Lake Heights. Michaela pets her car door, promises silently to take real good care of her baby as soon as she can. Dean sees it, must, because he's got an amused tilt to his lips when they finally get off 127. 

They pass a McDonalds and a Big Boy but even though Michaela could probably put away a couple burgers on her own and Dean has to be just as hungry, they don't even think about stopping. They're too close, now, and the anxiety weighing heavily on Michaela's shoulders just means the food wouldn't settle anyway. 

"Where to?" he asks, when they come to a four-way stop and are facing the lake. 

"Left," she says, and goes on as Dean's turning, ignoring the red light. "Around the lake to the north. Bradford Drive, left turn onto East Houghton Lake Road, then a right onto Bay View Street. He's in the house all the way at the end. Small but it looks cozy rather than cramped. Blue shutters."

Her mouth is dry and her stomach's filled with butterflies. _So close, Rosie_ , she thinks. _We're so close_.

And then, too soon and not soon enough, as if she's blinked and missed the last fifteen minutes, they're there. 

Dean parks right in the small driveway area, not down the road like Michaela had been for a week, and he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders before getting out of the car. Michaela thought there'd be something else, something more, what, she's not sure, but she's scrambling to catch up with him as he walks to the front door and knocks once, twice, three times. 

Michaela's standing just behind her uncle when the front door opens. A man with piercing blue eyes looks right at Dean and smiles, just a little. 

"Hello, Dean." 

"Where the fuck is he, Cas?" Dean asks. He tries to shoulder his way past Castiel -- _fuck, Rosie, there's a fucking angel in front of me, oh god, damn it, I shouldn't be swearing, what if he can fucking, freaking, hear me swear_ \-- but the angel stands firm. " _Cas_ ," Dean says, and this time he's not angry, he's so, so tired and lost and he sounds like the man she first saw in that rocking chair in Coden. 

Castiel reaches out, puts one hand on Dean's chest. A second later, Dean smacks it away. The smile fades from Castiel's face, not all the way but enough to notice. "He's not the brother you remember, Dean," Castiel says. "His recovery is -- stagnant. I did not want you to see him like this and, to be honest, seeing you might not be the best thing for him." 

"Fuck that," Dean says. " _Fuck that_. He's _mine_ , Cas. You had no right keeping him from me, _none_." 

The angel takes that in, tilts his head and studies Dean before looking at Michaela. His eyes are scorching and she can feel something at the edges of her mind start to smoke. Castiel's lips part in what Michaela thinks is shock. He takes her in, all of her, somehow he can read her soul, what she is down past bone and marrow, and then he looks back at Dean. 

"Cas," Dean says. "Please. Don't make me hurt you," and one hand goes up to his glasses."I don't want to hurt you but I will if you don't get out of my way." 

"I will take you to him," Castiel says. 

He steps to one side and Dean immediately pushes past him, into the house. Michaela follows, carefully, and says, "There are more coming," to Castiel. "More of your kind. They were following us on the road. I think we've got an hour, maybe less, before they get here." 

Castiel nods and, once Michaela's inside, closes the door. There are sigils and wards all over the door, all over the house, when Michaela turns to look. She only recognises about half of them, sees way more Enochian than she ever thought existed, along with something that looks like inverted Enochian.

"Demonic script," Castiel says, seeing where Michaela's gaze has landed. "I'll teach you."

"Later," Dean says. He's full of desperate need and Michaela wants to go over to him and comfort him more than she's ever felt the need before, outside of Rosie. If this is family, blood family, then it sucks because it hurts. 

She thinks she sees something of the same feeling in Castiel's eyes as he nods and moves toward the back of the house. 

The hall is narrow, is covered in script and runes and has a crucifix every few feet. No wonder no one knew Sam was here; no wonder no one could find him. Michaela trails behind Dean, running her fingers over the paint on the walls and sends everything she sees to Rosie, trying to keep her own personal commentary out of it so Rosie can focus. 

Dean's on Castiel's heels and nearly runs into the angel when they stop outside of the bedroom. The door's open and Castiel pauses before he gets out of Dean's way. Dean brushes past Castiel and flicks the light on. He makes a noise high in this throat when he sees the man on the bed and instantly crosses the distance between them, sitting down on a chair next to the bed before his knees give out. He picks up the man's hand and holds it tight in both of his own. 

"Sam," he says. " _Sam_. Please, wake up. It's me." 

The man moves but doesn't wake up. Michaela steps to the other side of the bed, across from Dean, and looks him over. Tall, skinny, with her nose and chin, what looks like the remnants of broken fingers and knuckles on his hand, resting on top of the sheet. Michaela can't help it; she picks up his hand, strokes her fingers over his, then turns his hand over and rests her palm against his. 

He's here. He's really here. Her father. Her _dad_. Sam Winchester.

She sets his hand back down carefully, reverently, and steps back from the bed, a moment away from crying. 

More movement and then a noise, displeased, and a bitten-back yawn. Sam's eyes open, eyelashes sticking together. Michaela wasn't sure what she was expecting; she and Sam have the same shape of eyes but his colour is darker, greener, and hers are just like her mother's, more brown in the hazel, flecks of sun-kissed gold lurking in the outer ring of the iris. 

She takes another step back, bumps up against the wall, and watches as Sam glances down at his hand joined with Dean's and then up to Dean's face. "Who," he starts to say. Michaela watches Dean's heart break in that moment, shatter to pieces, and she wonders how she didn't hear it, hear that utter devastation of a man falling apart to dust. 

"It's me," Dean says. His voice breaks. "Sam, it's me. Dean. Your -- do you remember me? At all?"

This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. Taking Dean away from the Gulf and bringing him here just so he can die all at once instead of slowly, stretched out over years, was a huge mistake. 

"Dean," Sam says, tongue curling around the name as though he's holding it in his mouth, tasting it. He frowns, looks down at the joined hands again. He sits up and Dean helps him with one hand, unwilling to let his other hand stop holding Sam's. Dean's perched on the edge of the chair and Sam's head is tilted, lips curved down in a frown. "Dean," he says again, and then reaches out unerringly with his other hand and takes out an amulet from under Dean's shirt. 

Castiel moves, enough for her to hear, and she looks at him before looking back at Dean and Sam. It's the same amulet that Dean had hanging on his trailer wall by the knife and the Colt. Michaela hadn't seen him pick it up, pick any of them up, but it shouldn't surprise her this much to see it now. Evidently it surprised Castiel as well; she wishes she knew why.

Sam grips the amulet tight and Dean says, "You gave it to me, Sammy. A long time ago. Do -- do you remember?"

Michaela holds her breath. She thinks the entire universe is holding its breath and she knows, better than she knows herself, better than she knows Rosie, that the world is about to shift on its axis. 

And then it does, because Sam's eyes widen and he says, " _Dean_ ," like he's been lost in the desert for years and has finally found water. He's scrabbling with the sheets and so is Dean and then they collide, half-laying down, half-sitting, laughing and crying and clutching each other tight enough to leave bruises. 

Michaela steps toward the door; this is personal and she doesn't need to see it. Castiel sees her coming and must agree because they both leave the bedroom and close the door behind them. 

\--

"I thought about contacting him," Castiel admits, five minutes later as he and Michaela have taken up seats on the two small sofas in the living room. "But I wasn't sure how to find him. How did you find him?" 

"Vision," she says. "I was dreaming about the Gulf for weeks and when I finally decided to chase him down, I saw enough to drive right to his door." 

Castiel nods and says, "You are Sam's daughter. That was also his gift, of a facet of it, at any rate. It -- it left him, a long time ago. Perhaps you inherited it." He stops there, as if he's making a mental note, and Michaela smiles until Castiel says, bluntly, "I was not aware Sam had a child." 

"With Jessica Moore," Michaela says. "They gave me up for adoption. I've spent -- I've spent so long looking. And he's here. How long has he been here? How long has he been out of hell?"

"Long enough to have recovered physically," Castiel says, "though I believe the emotional scars will never go away. You said that some of my brethren are also on their way?" 

Michaela nods, pulls loosely on the tether and winces as its barbs sink deeper into her head. "Three of them, and they're about forty-five minutes away or so," she says. "Are you -- do we need to leave before they get here?" 

Castiel sinks back into the couch. She thinks it makes him look more human. "They are here for me, not Sam. They won't be able to get into the house so you're safe." 

"What do they want with you?" Michaela asks, and then narrows her eyes, asks, "Are _you_ safe?"

"They've been sent to bring me home," Castiel says. "At least, that is my assumption." 

Michaela waits for Castiel to say something else, but when he doesn't, she asks, "Will you go back with them?" 

Castiel heaves out a sigh and says, "I may not have a choice." 

"Fuck that," Michaela says. "You have a choice. You always have a choice. You said they can't get in the house, right? So wait them out. Or come back with me to Sanctuary. Rosie would _love_ to get her hands on an angel. If you wanna teach someone Enochian and demon, she's the one; her memory's amazing."

"Sam and I are going with her," Dean says. Michaela spins in her seat, sees Dean and Sam walk out of the hallway, Sam's arm flung over Dean's shoulders, Dean's arm around Sam's waist, holding him up. "I mean, if that's okay with you," he asks Michaela. 

Michaela blinks and then, a moment later, quickly says, "Yeah! Yeah, of course," before Dean can change his mind. She was planning on offering, but she never thought -- Dean asked _her_ and he asked for both of them, him and Sam. She thought maybe they'd hole up somewhere, rebuild their lives, but this is better, this is beyond her wildest dreams and it's almost in her grasp. "We've got plenty of room for -- for both of you. And you," she tells Castiel. "Please, if you don't want to go back home -- oh my god is that _heaven?_ \-- then come with us. The car's big enough for four though, I will admit, it might feel a little cramped by the time we get there."

"It'll be like old times," Dean says, then winces. "Okay, not exactly like old times. Better. Apparently she has chickens." 

Michaela nods when Castiel looks at her, eyebrow raised in question. "Farm-fresh eggs, all the time. We have a couple of cows, too, so we always have milk and butter and ice cream, too."

"Who _are_ you?" Sam asks, apparently unable to hold back the question any longer. His voice is hoarse and raspy but it sounds -- she's had dreams where his voice doesn't sound as good as it does now. 

Michaela looks at Dean, who shrugs one shoulder, careful of Sam, holding on.

She takes a deep breath and says, "I'm Michaela. Your daughter."

Sam doesn't quite pass out but it's close.

"Yeah," Dean mutters, just loud enough for Michaela to hear. "My reaction was just about the same." 

"And then you almost suffocated me and cut my eye out two minutes later," Michaela snarks back. 

Sam and Castiel both stare at her, then at Dean, and Dean sighs, looks at the ceiling, and says, "It's a long story. We'll have time in the car. Just, do me a favour, okay, and ask her about the wooden spoon." 

Michaela puts her hands on her hips and glares at Dean; Sam's mouth parts in shock, she thinks, because he says, "Jesus," like he's on the verge of passing out again. "You look just like."

"Jessica," Michaela says, content for now to let Dean slide; it's more important to bask in the look her father's giving her, like she's something precious, close to sacred. "My mom." 

"You're the one that found me?" Sam asks. "And Dean?" 

Michaela nods and prays that Sam doesn't ask how.

"She's smart," Dean says, and not for the first time, Michaela wishes he had normal eyes so she could see what kind of look is in them. "And stubborn. Just like you." 

Sam snorts, says, "Pot, kettle," and lets Dean guide him over to the couch, sits him down next to Castiel. Dean can't go too far away, though; he perches on the couch's arm right next to Sam, one hand on his shoulder, unwilling to let go. Michaela doesn't blame him. She doesn't blame Sam, either, for holding on tight to Dean's thigh, for being unsure whether to look at Dean or Michaela so he keeps glancing between them, eyes wide every time he looks at her, eyes softening every time he looks at Dean. 

"When will the others arrive?" Castiel asks, interrupting the three-way stare-fest from going on any longer. 

"Others?" Sam asks as Michaela's checking the tether. "Who else?"

Dean pulls Sam closer, tighter, and says, "Other angels. They've been tracking us from somewhere in Tennessee, we think, maybe further." Sam mouths _Tennessee?_ but seems to accept it. "I'd say what," he says, addressing Michaela, "twenty minutes? Fifteen if they sped a little once they got out of Lansing?"

None of the stories said anything about Dean's discretion but she's thankful for it. The longer she can go before having to explain her fucked-up talents to her father, the better. 

_Not that I'm ashamed_ , she adds for Rosie's benefit. _It's just -- complicated. And he just remembered his own fucking brother._

"Fifteen's a reasonable estimate," she says, judging the distance of the tether and comparing it to the same route she and Dean took to get to the house.

"We got a plan?" Dean asks Castiel.

Castiel, for his part, looks a startled, though Michaela's not sure whether he's questioning the 'we' part of that sentence or Dean's concession as to just whose plan they'd be following. "I'll go outside and see what they want," he says. "And then I'll ask them to leave. Politely." 

"I'll go with you," Dean says. It looks like it kills him to say those words, to commit to being out of touching distance of Sam for however long this conversation takes, but he taps his glasses and Michaela gets it. His eyes, the weapon that angels can't argue with. "You'll stay here with Sam?" he asks Michaela, fiercely. "You'll protect him?" 

She won't die for him, not the way that Dean would, because she has Rosie waiting for her. But anything up to that point, "Yeah," she says. "He's mine, too." 

\--

In the end, Castiel and Dean stand at the end of the drive, side by side, and she and Sam are inside, watching through the window. They're almost the same height and they have roughly the same build but Michaela's lean and toned and Sam, she thinks, is just skinny. He'll be a beast when he's back to full health.

"You can borrow any of my shirts you want," she tells him, both sets of their eyes focused on the man and angel outside, "just not the John Deere one. That one's mine. Got it?" 

"Cas did get me a few shirts of my own, y'know," Sam says. "And I'm assuming there are still places to _buy_ clothes. But, uh. Thanks." 

Michaela shrugs, says, "Sure thing," and is about to add that it's the same speech she gives everyone who comes to the ranch but then there are headlights. 

In the glare, she can see Dean put one hand on his glasses, ready to tear them off in case the angels come in hot and heavy. 

They don't; the back door of the car opens and the angel, the leader, steps out. She walks towards Castiel and Dean alone, stops about ten feet away from them. 

"Dean Winchester, beloved of the Father," she says, "and Castiel, my brother. I, Zadkiel, along with our brother Omael and sister Yasariah, who remain in the car, greet you in the name of the Lord of Hosts. Peace and blessings be unto you." 

"Peace and blessings to you as well," Castiel says. "Why are you here?" 

Michaela murmurs, "Your angel isn't wasting any time." 

"Probably better this way," Sam whispers back. "Look at Dean." Dean's tense, they can see that even from here, this far away, ready at a moment's notice to take his glasses off. He hasn't moved, though, and Michaela can't figure out why Sam said that, not until Sam adds, "You'll learn his tells quick enough." 

"The mission given unto us was your return home, if you desire it," Zadkiel says. "Or a refilling of your grace, if you wish to remain with your charges."

"My charges," Castiel echoes. "Both of them?" 

Zadkiel's smile, in the light of the car and the lamp above the front door, is luminous. "The Winchester line is special to the Father. They shall always be yours, if you are willing to relinquish your other roles." 

"Yes," Castiel says, instantly. " _Yes_." 

She reaches out one hand and Castiel reaches out his own; when they touch, the brightness blinds Michaela for a moment. She has to look away, blink back tears, and when she can see again, the three angels and their car is gone. 

Dean turns to Castiel, says, "What the hell," and trudges back to the house. Sam goes to the door, opens it and leans against it, waiting for his brother. Castiel watches Dean go and, when Dean isn't looking but Michaela is, he looks down at his hands and smiles.

"We'll get a few hours of sleep," Dean says, as he and Sam clasp hands again, as Castiel's following Dean into the house, "and leave in the morning. If that's okay with everyone," he adds, hesitantly, looking between the three of them. 

Sam shrugs and, a moment later, Castiel does as well. "I'm driving," Michaela says, "and I get the green couch." Sam opens his mouth to argue but Michaela narrows her eyes and puts one hand on her hip, and he melts, just like that, and gives in.

"Whipped," Dean says. 

Sam elbows Dean and the two brothers disappear back down the hallway, mock-fighting with each other. The bedroom door slams closed a moment later. 

Michaela turns to Castiel and says, "Charges? I'm not a Winchester."

"Oh," Castiel says, "you are where it counts, Michaela Johnson. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"I was scared to come," she says, and she has to look away as she admits that and feels shame coil in her stomach. "I was here for a fu -- _freaking_ week and I sat at the end of the road and couldn't knock on the door."

Castiel closes the distance between them and envelopes her in a hug, one augmented, she thinks, by the barest trace of wings brushing against her skin. "But you came back," he murmurs, smoothing down her braid, tucking one wave that escaped behind her ear. "And you are here now. You were here for this. That's enough for them, enough for me, and, apparently, enough for God, too." 

Michaela sinks into his arms and closes her eyes. 

It's over. She's found her father, found her uncle, even, it seems, has found an angel. It's over and she can go home now. 

_See you soon, babe. And, you know how you told me to bring you something? I'm bringing you three somethings. Three someones. Love you._.

\--

Michaela scoots over on the porch swing right before the screen door opens and shuts with a slam. Rosie hands her a glass of sweet tea, condensation already beading on the outside of the glass, and sits down next to her, rests her head on Michaela's shoulder. Out by the barn, Sam's gently coaxing a horse into a bridle while Dean watches, grin as wide as the horizon. 

It's been a transition, having her father, her uncle, and their guardian angel, apparently, living full-time with them. No one else stays for this long unless they've broken something; to have three more adults underfoot all the time has been a change. 

"Not a bad change, though," Rosie murmurs. 

"No," Michaela says. She wraps one arm around Rosie, pulls her close and presses a kiss to the top of her hair. "Not a bad change." 

A flutter of wings is all the warning they have before Castiel pokes his head out of the open window behind them. Michaela's never seen the wings, neither has Rosie, but every movement he makes is prefaced by that sound. Dean says he can't hear it and Sam hasn't said either way, but both Michaela and Rosie can, hear them and even feel them, sometimes. 

"Break time's over, Rose," Castiel says. "You've only got one section left to translate and you should get back to it; you were doing really well."

Rosie groans and gets up just as Sam finishes bridling the horse and Dean yells, "Hey, kid! Get over here!" to Michaela. 

"Go on, _kid_ ," Rosie says, and starts to laugh. 

Michaela shuts her up by kissing her and tells her, _Prove to you later that I ain't no kid._

When Rosie's pulled away, flush all over her face and halfway down her neck, Michaela calls out, "Hold the horse, I'm on my way, old man."

Dean's laugh rings out over the courtyard. Sam's joins it a moment later. 

_No_ , Michaela thinks. _Not a bad change at all._


End file.
